Paul Theroux - The Black House

“Really,” said Munday, but he made it a murmur of disinterest and doubt.

“You know very little about your wife.”

“I know she’s lonely, and her heart bothers her. She’s had a bad time of it.” He lit the candles in the wall holders over the hearth. “We’re partly to blame.”

“Partly?” said Caroline. She smiled and flicked one of the tassles on the cushion with her fingers. “Are you going to leave her?” Munday thought a moment. He said, “Wouldn’t it be perfect if we could live like this, the three of us.”

“You don't mean that,” she said.

Then Emma walked in with the coffee. She served it and took a chair before the fire, between Caroline and Munday. “I’m not having any coffee,” she said. “It would only keep me awake. I’ve put a nightdress and clean towel on your bed. It’s the back bedroom. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

“You’re very kind,” said Caroline.

There was complete peacefulness on Emma’s face. She said, “It would be lovely if every evening was like this. The candlelight, the fire, good company. I think I could actually bear it here.” She let her head fall back and she seemed to sleep, still smiling quietly. Her repose excited Munday; he felt a stirring of desire for her, thumbs and fingers within him warming his grave pulse to a weightless dance. The desire he felt for Emma became a yearning for Caroline—it was intense, bearing on one, then the other, a sexual blessing Emma inspired that he would bestow on Caroline. He savored the speed and impatience, the flutter in his blood.

He said, “Emma’s had a long day. Cooking’s quite an effort for her.”

“I’m awake,” said Emma. Her eyes were nearly shut. “Just.”

“I’d like to help with the washing-up,” said Caroline.

“It’s too dark for that—this blackout,” said Emma. “I’ve piled the dishes in the sink. Alfred and I can tackle them tomorrow.”

“It’s easier in the morning,” said Munday.

Emma rolled her head to one side and said to Caroline, “I feel as if you’ve rescued me.”

“It’s you who’s rescued me,” said Caroline.

“No,” said Emma. “I didn’t realize until tonight I could be happy here. It’s your doing.”

Munday said, “You look tired, Emma.”

“I am tired.” Her voice was thick with fatigue. ‘That fire always makes me so sleepy.” She sat up straight and said, “I’m nodding off. You must forgive me. I’m going to bed. Alfred, will you lock up and make sure Caroline has everything she needs?”

“Of course,” said Munday.

Emma got to her feet. She was somewhat unsteady. Caroline came over to her and said, “Sleep well,” and raised her hands. Emma reached and took them, and the women drew together, an action of unexpected grace, like that of two trained dancers beginning to music. They faced each other and touched cheeks, and then they kissed with great naturalness. It was a swift sisterly gesture, with a mute sigh in it, and their bodies met, their loose lips grazed. But Munday saw them hold it a fraction too long, and he was a gaping witnfess to a moment of intimacy. He sat back and squinted—he did not want to look away, though he felt he should, it was only proper.

And without saying more to him, Emma went out of the room. He heard her on the stairs, the light stamps rising up the other side of the wall. The sound faded and stopped. Then there was the wind in the chimney, the soft pop of the fire.

“Now,” said Munday, and he got up from his chair and made a move towards Caroline.

“Aren’t you afraid she’ll hear?” Caroline whispered. “She’ll be asleep soon,” said Munday. He went over to her and brushed her ear with his mouth, and kissing her he received a faint sweet fragrance of Emma’s cologne. He inhaled it and said, “I can taste her on you.”

“You’re so slow.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I could always taste her on you,” said Caroline. “She helped us. We need her. It would be awful, you know, just you and I—living here in this place, dishes in the sink.”

“It would be different somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere,” said Munday. “At your house.”

"This is my house!” she said. She saw his bewilderment and added, “You didn’t know that. I think she does, in her way. You know very little. You barely know me.”

“I know I love you,” he said. He took her by the waist and drew her towards him. She struggled, but remained in his loose grip.

“You invented me,” said Caroline.

There was a scrape on the ceiling, Emma’s footsteps. They both looked up. Munday listened for more, and Caroline said, “She did too.”

“No.”

“I needed it. I’m grateful to you for that,” said Caroline. “She’s beautiful.” Caroline faced him and said, “But you’re a desperate man.” He took one of her breasts and worked his thumb over the nipple. “What are you?”

“The same,” she said. “I’m like you. Why else would I be here?”

“So you see, we belong together, you and I.”

“And Emma,” she said.

There were sounds of bedsprings just above their heads, the low ceiling creaked. It was plaster, roughened in patches where the stain had made it peel, and it was slumping and cracked in enough places to give the impression that if it was jolted too hard it would divide at its severest crack and collapse and cover them. The thick beam which ran along the center would splinter as well and add weight to the chunks of stone, the shower of dust. The sight of the ceiling caving in was vivid to Munday because the strain of the creaking and the five-note song of the bedsprings continued like music from the finger-harp which set Africans in motion.

“She’s in bed,” said Munday.

“She can’t sleep.” Caroline reached up and ran her fingers dreamily along a crack. She said, “She’s right there.” As she was looking up Munday stood close to her and pressed his face into her neck. The bedsprings seemed to respond to the pressure of her fingers, touching and following the crack. She moved in Munday’s embrace, stroking the ceiling, until her back was turned to him and he was pressed against her shoulders. She took his hands and lifted them from her waist to her breasts and cupping the backs of his hands in her own she slid them over her breasts—she was languidly fondling her body using his hands. Then she planted her feet apart, opening her legs and lifting her buttocks against him, scalding his groin.

They stayed like this, pressed together, as if she was carrying him, like a swimmer rising with a victim on her back from a deep firelit pool. The room had darkened, the heat was hers, not that of the dying fire that ceased to blow with any force into the chimney. He remained on her back, holding to her breasts, and he was aroused, for although she was facing away, her hands kept his over her breasts and the gentle switching of her soft buttocks he found a wonderful caress. She pulled at the neck of her dress, and he heard the sigh at her teeth as her nipples rode through his fingers.

The bedsprings still sounded, but he didn’t hear them. He embraced a stifling heat and remembered Africa, a memory of bursting blossoms that surged in his body and reddened the backs of his eyes with fire. She was jungle, moving against him, trapping him in the rufous dark of her heat, weakening him but making his penis into a club. She took his right hand and moved it down her stomach, bumping his wrist on her hip, and pressed the pad of hair, gripping herself with his tickling hand and rolling the other over her breast. She pitched and came alive, plant flashing into animal, feathery and damp, but with muscles working under all that warmth.

She was a creature from an amorous bestiary, as if she had clawed her way out of a voluptuous myth, a long-legged heron or swan, with horny yellow feet, a woman’s head and hunger and eager winged hands, and the cries of a child in her throat. Briefly, Munday imagined he was subduing her; but that was illusion— he was no hunter, the subduing was hers, she gripped him and bore him as if driven by the scratching on the ceiling, the sound of the bed. With her stroking buttocks she brought him almost to the point of orgasm. He flew, clinging to her back, seeming to rise on the quivering light and shadow of the room that was like a passage through a forest of dense trees. And her shrugging insistent speed was like a reminder that he must obey her and follow her to the end. She dropped to her knees, and Munday went down, pulling cushions from the chairs, kicking his shoes off.